If I'm Being Honest(11)

She pulls a pair of fishnets from her Hello Kitty bag, unbelievably, and begins mending the giant hole in them on her desk.

“Tell me I don’t have a cold sore,” Morgan says next to me. I notice she’s holding her hand over her lips. I pull it down, revealing a cluster of bright red blisters beneath her bottom lip.

“You don’t have a cold sore,” I pronounce, repeating her request. She eyes me skeptically. “But in a more truthful sense, yes, you have a gigantic cold sore,” I go on. “What have you and Brad been up to? Or what have you been up to? Or what—”

“Cameron!” she hisses with a giggle. She covers her mouth in mortification and shoves me lightly. “This is tragic.”

I hear someone snicker from behind Morgan and me. I don’t need to check to know it’s Paige. On other days, I would call her out. It’s bullshit for a girl who looks like Edward Scissorhands styled her hair to mock Morgan, who’s not only gorgeous but whose gorgeousness is part of her career.

But today, I pretend I didn’t hear. I playfully return Morgan’s shove. “You’re friends with one of the most popular makeup experts in probably the world. You don’t think it’ll be fine?”

“But—”

“No buts.” I give her a stern glance. “Why don’t you focus on more important things—like the design board I sent you yesterday?”

Morgan’s eyes light up instantly. Her hand drops from her mouth, and she grabs my arm. Morgan’s a very grabby person. “It’s incredible, Cam,” she gushes, and I feel a swell of pride even though I already knew it. I’ve put the past couple weekends into redesigning Morgan’s professional website with her headshots and highlight reel. “You could do this professionally,” Morgan goes on. “For real.”

I shrug. Web design’s a good hobby. I’m meant for Wharton and econ, though.

“Well, I don’t know where you learned to do that,” she says, shaking her head. “Brad’s totally going to want you to update the Mock Trial site, too.”

“Only if he can prove he didn’t give you herpes.” Morgan giggles loudly this time. Mr. Chen cuts her a reproving glare.

I bend down to pull my Ethics book from my bag. Without intending to, I lock eyes with Paige. She’s staring daggers at me. In just a couple hours, I’ll be apologizing to this girl, regardless of how hard I know she’ll make it.

Of course, the apology’s not for her.



* * *





I have Economics and then Calculus, and then Elle and I get Morgan looking like herself in an emergency concealer session before fourth period. I don’t cross paths with Andrew the entire morning—a shame, given the care I’ve put into my outfit, but I guess not a surprise. He was right when he reminded me he and I never hung out except outside of school. I don’t even know where his locker is.

I walk past the fountain in Beaumont’s inner courtyard, where the student body president, Lisa Gramercy, is publicizing this year’s winter formal, which will be held on her father’s yacht. I like Lisa, but I ignore her today. I’ve barely survived waiting for fourth period. Finally, I have the chance to fix what I broke between Andrew and me.

In the history of the known universe, I’ve never arrived early to English. Ms. Kowalski watches me in undisguised surprise. Andrew walks in a few minutes later, and I feel a familiar heat rise in my cheeks. He looks uh-mazing.

I don’t know if it’s possible for a person to become objectively better looking over one weekend or if it’s the memory of our recent romantic entanglement, but there’s something different about him. He’s not wearing anything special, just jeans, black Adidas, and a black T-shirt, but there’s a casual ease to his look that’s just . . . hot. He looks like a young John Legend. I’m finding it extremely difficult to tear my eyes away.

Paige follows right behind him, ruining my Andrew-related reverie, because the world is an unforgiving place. Her eyes narrow when they find mine. I don’t engage. Instead, I pretend I’m reading the whiteboard behind her, where Ms. Kowalski has written instructions for the new unit we’ll be forced to endure for the next six weeks.

And it’s Shakespeare. The Taming of the Shrew.

Wonderful.

I hate this class. Literature is frustrating. It’s counterintuitive. You’re supposed to get into the mind of a character, to experience his or her world and thoughts, but writers do everything they can to get in the way. Figurative language, symbols, meter, and rhyme—everything we write essays about only ever obscures the point of the book. Truths don’t become more true when delivered in metaphors and metonymy. It’s stupid. Except the Hemingway we read in AP junior year. He did his characters the favor of describing their real emotions. Too bad they’re whiny failures.

Shakespeare’s, for what it’s worth, aren’t. They’re just the worst offenders in hiding everything they want to say in floral wording, whences and whereofs. Characters, and people for that matter, should say what they mean.

Ms. Kowalski asks Andrew to hand out a Shakespearean English glossary. I try to catch Andrew’s eye while he passes the pile down my row. He pointedly refuses even to look in my direction. It hurts. A week ago we were on a run together, laughing about the number of French bulldogs we passed on our route (there were seven). Three days ago he had his hand under my bra. Now he won’t even look at me.